


By which We Learn

by salable_mystic



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Bujold
Genre: Dinner, Fluff, Gen, blanket
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-01
Updated: 2010-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-06 22:39:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salable_mystic/pseuds/salable_mystic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you need to learn how to become Barrayar's next Empress, wisdom is sometimes found in unexpected places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By which We Learn

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go to my magnificent beta reader tigerkat, without whom this story would have been much less enjoyable! All remaining mistakes are mine. Thank you so much, Kat!!!
> 
> This story was written as a response to challenge # 59 on the livejournal writing group "the_challenger".

It was an echoing room, but quite bright. The walls were wallpapered in bright yellow, broken up by thin, pale pink curtains on the windows. A crocheted afghan lay in a puddle of colors in a corner.

The floor was made of bright hardwood, and the furniture in the room was an interesting mix of hardwood and white fabric that matched the floor almost perfectly. The most imposing piece of furniture was undoubtedly the huge hardwood desk situated in front of one of the windows that overlooked the ample gardens, and the comfortable-looking office chair behind. Aside from the desk and chair, Laisa spotted an equally comfortable – yet properly officious – looking couch, complete with tea table and tea chairs, and an empty bookcase/shelf combination that stood on the far wall. There was a rug spread across some of the floor, with an abstract design that matched the walls and curtains, and the paintings on the wall were of Barrayaran landscapes.

Although she had been assured – repeatedly, by a rather nervous looking boy that must be part of the palace staff – that she could, of course, have these changed to something more of her linking. In fact, she could have everything changed into something more of her liking, if she so desired, of course. Of course! Laisa had to stifle a deprecating snort. Who was she, of all people, to have everything changed to her wishes?

Still, without her changing much, this office wasn't a bad place to be spending a good deal of your working days, Laisa thought. She sighed softly and leaned back against the door that she had just closed firmly behind herself. It was … a nice room. Elegant, but not intimidating. Airy and wide, but not empty. Well designed, by whoever had furnished it. Furnished it – for her. Although that afghan did look rather incongruous in this otherwise so immaculate room, puddled haphazardly in the corner as it was. Why was it here? Why was it not lying on the couch, if it was meant to be in this room at all? A design touch? She doubted it. But what _was_ it doing here?

She strode over to it quickly, bending elegantly from the waist while making sure to also bend at her knees, and picked it up. It somehow seemed familiar to her, although she was unable to place it, and she smoothed her hands over it absently, letting it slide through her fingers and drape to the floor.

It was not a particularly well-made piece of crochet work, really, made up of crocheting that consisted of rows upon rows of haphazard stitches with rather large holes here and there. Laisa fingered the different parts, whimsically pushing her fingers through some of the larger holes, and considered it. She knew very little about crocheting, but even she could recognize that, whoever had made this piece, he or she had not been competent at the craft at all.

What a puzzling thing to find in her new office and in the Imperial Palace of all places, indeed – how had it come to be here? Why was it here? And why did she feel like she had seen it before?

She shook it out, so that she might fold it up smoothly, and noticed that at some point, a folded sheet of paper must have fallen out of it – or had been lying below it on the floor all this time. Either way, there was now a sheet of paper lying on the floor in front of her, where the afghan had been before. She bent down again, still terribly conscious of moving all her limbs in the approved fashion, and picked up the piece of paper. It was folded twice, and seemed to be of the kind of paper that was used as Imperial stationery. Curiouser and curiouser … .

She carried the paper and the afghan with her to her new desk, putting the afghan down gently on the smooth wooden surface that was of yet empty of most of the usual office accoutrements – although a comconsole had already been installed for her, she noticed. The office of an Empress – and what a strange thought that still was! Intimidating in a very real way, filled with sinkholes and possible disasters, mishaps and incorrect moves and … she shook her head. To think like that was to invite disaster. There were plenty of competent people around that were more than willing to help her find her feet, if she wanted, ranging from the intimidating but frighteningly competent Vor bastion of Alys Vorpatril, who understood Barrayar and the Vor system perfectly and was one if its central social hubs, always available to explain some part of it, and an embodiment of all their social graces – to the equally intimidating and equally frighteningly competent, but decidedly anti-Vor bastion of Cordelia Vorkosigan, who might understand the Vor to no lesser degree than Alys Vorpatril – Laisa was still a bit unsure on that point – but who blithely sailed by a lot of the finer points of Vorish behavior, in her inimitable, straightforward and decidedly Betan way.

And then, of course, there was always Gregor himself! Laisa smiled at the thought of him, as she always did, really, if she was honest with herself – and, well, she made it a point to always be honest with herself. For if you could not be honest with yourself, how could you possibly be honest with anyone else?

She wished he could have been here, during this week, her first week of learning not the social, but the political ropes of being Barrayar's future Empress, but diplomatic visits a year in the making waited on no orientation week for Empresses-to-be – nor should they, really, Laisa thought ruefully. She was competent and capable, and she would manage all this on her own! Still, it would have been nice to have him close, just so that she might go and have lunch with him or have a coffee with him or to just spend five minutes with him and take comfort in his seemingly endless confidence in her abilities to master her new situation in life. For she … was not all that confident of her abilities, when it came to the wider, political, picture. Yes, the thought of marrying Gregor was … heartwarming and magnificent and wonderful – but the thought of being Barrayar's next Empress … well, that was a rather intimidating thought, indeed. How could she possibly be what Barrayar - and Komarr, and Sergyar - needed?

And aside from all that, there was simply the fact that being without Gregor was … not something she wanted to get used to. Oh, it was something she would have to get used to, undoubtedly, but not something she particularly cared to get used to all the same. No, definitely not.

So she leaned back in her chair and laughed, amused at herself. For how long had she known Gregor now, exactly? And how many years had she spent without him, previous to that? Granted, she had not known who she was missing, then; nor had she had to go through endless meetings and protocol lessons, then – nor had to acclimatize herself to the fact that she, Laisa Toscane, former business lobbyist and trade relations girl, was going to become Laisa Vorbarra, Empress of Barrayar and Komarr and Sergyar and one percious wormhole jump point and lots of planetoids and asteroids and … . Yes, definitely enough to give a woman pause. And, well, to make her wonder if she was going mad, to have agreed to marry not just Gregor, but all the baggage that came with him, as well. Not that she could have one without the other. Or would want one without the other. Gregor was Barrayar, and Barrayar was Gregor. And if she loved one, did she not love both? Oh, but it was enough to daunt the braves of people – which she, admittedly, was not.

Still, she could do this. She would do this! She was smart, and flexible (well, maybe more mentally flexible than physically flexible, if all those sore muscles that 'how to walk' and 'how to bend' and 'how to wave' lessons engendered were any indication), and tough. She'd show them. But still… .

And that was enough stellar dust gathering, she reminded herself firmly. Her schedule said that she had half an hour to 'familiarize herself with her new office', before the first round of 'meet the political advisors' began and she was wasting time! And there was still the mystery of the small and poorly crocheted afghan and the letter to puzzle out. Her right hand stroked absently over the smooth fabric, and with her left she reached for the folded sheet of paper that she had put down on the desk.

It was crisp and white and indeed a sheet of Imperial paper, folded twice over in a neat and exact way. She abandoned the afghan and quickly unfolded the paper, sitting up straighter into the pose she mentally dubbed 'relaxed yet paying attention #3, Barrayaran protocol approved'.

The Emperor's personal sigil had been imprinted into the paper when it had been fabricated, and the paper itself was filled with a scant two rows of neat handwriting in navy blue ink, written by a hand that she immediately recognized as Gregor's, althought the note itself was not signed. She smiled softly, stroking her fingers over the writing, her eyes quickly flying over the message.

  
_Regarding the story Cordelia told at dinner -  
This is it._

  
The story Cordelia Naismith Vorkosigan had told at dinner? Laisa pondered the cryptic note. She had not – not yet – had the pleasure of spending many evenings dining with Cordelia Vorkosigan, at least not in a setting where intimate conversation was possible, although they had had their share of teas together with Alys Vorpatril, talking about the Vorbarr Sultana society and the social circuit; but she did remember quite vividly the evening that the Viceroy and Vicereine of Sergyar had spent at the Residence, dining with Gregor and herself. It had been an intimate, slightly terrifying, terribly interesting and much more relaxing evening than she had expected it to be beforehand. And it had been the "meet the parents" event in all but name, given that for Gregor, Aral Vorkosigan and Cordelia Naismith Vorkosigan were the closest he had ever come to having parents when he was growing up, after the death of his mother, the Princess Kareen.

The Viceroy had been quiet, most of the time, but fondly amused and friendly, content to let Cordelia tell stories about her first years of living on Barrayar, the experiences she had made settling into the life of the Regent Consort and the adjustments she had had to make, his eyes warm when he gazed at her and at Gregor, proud and – happy? Laisa'd hoped she was reading him right, and that he was happy. The more Laisa got to know the Viceroy and Vicereine, the more she thought that she could see delicate traces of both him and Cordelia in the man she had come to love, and from the accounts she had read and been told, Aral Vorkosigan had not led a life that had often been what one might call 'easy'.

Cordelia Vorkosigan had been … charming, and vivacious, and quite obviously fond (and a little protective) of Gregor - and she had been quite willing to relate funny stories and fond memories about Gregor's escapades as a boy, when they had all lived together here in the palace. Happy memories, only – the dark ones were there, Laisa knew, of course, and she was sure Gregor would tell some of them to her, one day. But those were the kind of memories that you whispered into the neck of your lover or your wife, late at night, when the air was still and the heat of pleasure had passed and you were sharing confidences; they were not memories to be told across the dinner table at an intimate family dinner.

Laisa reached out to run her fingers through the soft wool of the afghan again, the connection now becoming clear in her mind. She knew this afghan because she had seen it lying on the back of a comfortable couch in the private living room of Gregor's Imperial Palace suite, and the hands that had made it had been Cordelia Vorkosigan's.

She remembered the story that went with it, now, as well.

  
***

  
Apparently and for no particular reason, during the second year of the Regency, crocheting had become a major fashion in the female high Vor circles of Vorbarr Sultana, and Alys Vorpatril had taken it upon herself to induce Cordelia to the craft.

"'Because it would be a good thing to know, and a safe conversational topic,'" Laisa remembered Cordelia telling the story, voice filled with laughter. "Crocheting! Me! Whose hands were far more used to programming navigational computers or to handling charts or any other thing but working with yarn and a crocheting hook. First I was wearing skirts, then flowers in my hair, and then I found myself suddenly crocheting! I … was a bit fearful of what would come after that, to tell you the truth. But, in the end, I accepted the challenge Alys had so airily presented me with."

Here she had been interrupted by the Count's soft laughter and fond remark: "And make no mistake, Miss Toscane, for a challenge it was indeed. Alys knew quite well by then how to tempt you, did she not, dear Captain?"

Cordelia and Aral had shared a private look then, so filled with love and closeness and the sheer intimacy that came from living through many things together and still being so close to each other after them all, that Laisa had involuntarily glanced over at Gregor, only to find him looking at her already, his expression equally soft. He had raised one hand from the table and placed it over his heart, inclining his head ever so slightly towards her, before his hand had drifted back down, and his expression had been so unexpectedly open and tender and hopeful that Laisa had had to fight against the tears that suddenly wanted to spring to her eyes. To share that closeness, to cherish it, through whatever came, for the next forty years or more … to have this man glancing at her like that, saying so much in the faintest of gestures … she'd had to reach out then, to gently squeeze his hand, where it had come to rest again on the table.

It had been Count Vorkosigan clearing his throat in what sounded like a mix of fondness and faint embarrassment that had broken the moment, and they both had glanced back over at him.

But it had been Cordelia who spoke next, her voice still as fond as her gaze had been just a moment ago, but now rich with laughter, as well: "Indeed she knew! And she did challenge me to master this 'intricate but essential art of the Vor women's craft and status', as she termed it, despite my obvious disadvantages, for 'it was something one either learned as a child, or learned not at all.'" Cordelia was really quite adept at mimicking Alys Vorpatril's stern voice, Laisa had thought, and then she'd turned her attention to the red haired woman again as the Countess continued: "Now, I'll admit that I rarely back down from a challenge-" Here Count Vorkosigan had winked, _winked_, at Laisa and mouthed a silent "Never!" in her direction, which had made Cordelia mutter an aside of "Oh hush, you! As if you are any better!" at him and cheerfully roll her eyes in response, before continuing: "But _anyway_, as I was saying" – this again with a quick fond glance at the Count – "since I was loathe to admit that Alys was probably right in her assessment of my aptitude to the task, I set out to master the art of crocheting. With, well … decidedly mixed results." She'd shrugged.

"Mixed results? You produced this, this … thing, my dear Captain! This … thing … that was more holes than yarn and rather lopsided and altogether uneven to boot, Cordelia! Is your memory declining and reaching the stage where you revise the past so it suits your assessments and needs? And here I thought that that was a skill you always – hmm, let me get this right, what did you call them last week?" He had paused – for show, more than anything, Laisa had been sure – "Ah, yes. You always deprecate those 'stodgy old conservative blind self-obsessed relics in the Council of Counts' for!" The Viceroy had been laughing at her now, obviously enjoying the opportunity of being able to tease his usually so unflappable wife. "It was embarrassing, Cordelia! Alys was … horrified." He'd turned to Laisa, adding pensively: "In her very dignified way, of course, you understand."

Cordelia had looked at him as if she might possibly be insulted by this rather unflattering assessment of her skills, but had had to laugh, instead: "She was, wasn't she? I remember her face quite well, still, when I showed her the blanket I had so painstakingly made. She took it, shook it out, looked at it without moving a muscle for the longest time, and then handed it back to me with the blandest expression on her face, merely saying, with a perfectly expressionless voice and after a long pause: 'Perhaps crocheting is not such a safe conversational topic, after all.' And that was that. Shot down to cinders with but a mere sentence." She had clutched her heart dramatically, affecting a tragic pose, grinning.

The Count had been leaning back in his chair, laughing gently. "And you were so …earnestly emotionally involved in its painful and painstaking creation, too."

They'd both been silent, then, letting the memories run through their minds. Laisa had taken a sip of her long-neglected glass of wine and finally ventured to ask: "Were you very disappointed at her assessment?"

Cordelia had laughed openly again at that, her face bright and merry with amusement, and shaken her head, her roan red hair flowing behind her: "God, no. Objectively viewed, the blanket I made was a horrible thing indeed, no two ways about it! Uneven and full of holes and … well, you can imagine. But I was still proud of it, and Alys' assessment did not take that away from it at all. For I really quite disliked crocheting, you know? I discovered that fact about myself very quickly indeed, when I set out upon essaying it. Two or three rows in it was, no more than that. But I persevered through those endless rows that came after, and in the end, that was all that mattered to me – not the look of the blanket as such."

The Countess had smiled and taken a sip of her wine.

"So, what happened to the afghan?" Laisa had finally asked, curious as to the future fate of the odd blanket.

Unexpectedly, Gregor had laughed ruefully and said: "Oh, as to that – I have it these days."

Laisa had turned to him, startled. "You do?"

From the corner of her eye she'd caught Cordelia's slight smirk, and the Count's fond glance first at his wife, and then at Gregor.

Gregor had cleared his throat and remarked in a perfectly bland voice: "Indeed I do, my dear! For while Cordelia," here he had raised his glass to her in a silent tribute "might not be the best crocheteer to grace Barrayar, she is most adept at using things, no matter what they might be, to her advantage."

He had fallen silent then, and Cordelia'd glanced at him, and it had seemed to Laisa almost as if she was asking his permission. Permission to tell the rest of the story? Laisa had wondered. But Gregor had merely nodded in reply to the silent inquiry and leaned back in his chair, his hand reaching out to briefly squeeze Laisa's under the table.

Cordelia had continued, "You see, Gregor was about seven or eight at the time, and, hmm … not doing entirely well at some of his lessons. So he decided that he did not want to become Emperor of Barrayar at all, since – and I am paraphrasing here – he was not a good student and could thus not become a good Emperor, and what good was being Emperor anyway if you could not be a really really good one? And anyway, he'd much rather go and spend all his time at Vorkosigan Surleau riding Piotr Vorkosigan's horses, and not learning all these boring things about history and statesmanship and all the other dry stuff. Is that a fair summary of your feelings at the time, Gregor?"

Gregor had been laughing silently throughout, Laisa'd noticed, not at all embarrassed or annoyed by this less than edifying story about his childhood. He had now nodded graciously, and still chuckling, had raised his wineglass in salute to Cordelia, commenting only: "It is."

The Count had spoken up then, also clearly enjoying the story and the memories that came with the retelling. Laisa had been suddenly glad, to see them all so at ease with each other and so amused by the past. So much of what she had read and heard and been told about them were stories of strive and obstacles and hardship – it had made her glad to see that there must have been happy moments and good times for all of them, interspersed into all the tense and tough ones.

"So, you see, Cordelia gave him the blanket."

Laisa had blinked. When no more information had been forthcoming, she'd ventured to ask "Actually, I must admit that I do not see, Count Vorkosigan."

The Count had looked at her pensively and waved a hand, "Would you object to calling me Aral, Miss Toscane? You are going to be practically family once the imperial machinery gets around to letting you and Gregor get married, you know."

Laisa had smiled at him, a little intimidated to be asked to call 'Count Vorkosigan, Former Regent of Barrayar, Former Prime Minister of Barrayar, Former Admiral, Current Viceroy of Sergyar' – her brain was still thinking of pretty much everyone except Gregor with all their titles attached, she'd noticed ruefully some days ago – simply 'Aral', but had nodded, and agreed: "Gladly. But – only if you call me Laisa in return."

He'd smiled at her, his brown eyes warm with approval. "Well then, Laisa!" He had paused briefly, raising his glass to her in salute, a gesture she quickly mirrored, and taking a sip, but then gone on. "So anyway, Cordelia," – again the tender glance at his wife, Laisa noticed, already swiftly growing fond of this enigmatic man that had had such a large part in making Gregor's fortune the good fortune that it was, "gave Gregor the blanket, because, you see, it was not a perfect blanket either."

Gregor had chuckled and added: "Instead, it now became a thoroughly pedagogical blanket."

That had prompted Cordelia to speak up, her eyes fierce, if not sincere with the annoyance that seemed to lace her tone – so much was said between these people in looks and expressions rather than with words, and if you listen only to the words you might miss so much, Laisa had thought ruefully, hoping she would get the chance of becoming a part of this silent rapport – "It was never only a pedagogical blanket, Gregor dear. I simply tried to show you…"

"… that something can be loved and cherished and be worth doing even if does not turn out perfect, and even if doing it is hard, because one did the best one could in creating it, and that the important thing is to not give up, no matter the obstacles that come at you, or the lack of talent you perceive in yourself. One must complete the task as well as one might, that is the important thing. Not the debatable perfection of the result." Gregor had finished for her.

Cordelia had cleared her throat, a little embarrassed and a little amused by this summary. "Well, yes, that. Only I am sure I did not use quite all those words."

Gregor had smiled at her and inclined his head: "Indeed, you did not. But the message got through loud and clear, nevertheless."

An easy silence had fallen around the table, then, that had only broken a while later by Gregor, who'd asked: "Well, would anyone care for some dessert, or some coffee? More wine?"

  
***

  
Laisa let go of the memories and returned to her airy office in the palace and to the present day. She smiled fondly down at the lopsided afghan on her desk and thought of Gregor, who could be so eloquent, while using such few words and when he was more than one interstellar wormhole jump away from the planet. She folded the afghan gently and laid it over the back of her chair, turning briskly towards her comconsole, so that she might access her schedule for the rest of the week and make the best of what was waiting for her.

Message received loud and clear, indeed.


End file.
